© Copyright Geoffrey Byron Garwick. All Rights Reserved.
What is the price of winter – All those summers dead and gone? Half the buffet sits emptied, The still sunlight’s gold, but wan. No warmth left to be mirrored In the ice-wrinkled lies of dawn. Then, just when I’m a loyal thrall of gloom, Some damned, scarlet-blurting cardinal Wings to punctuate the tree-streaked blank of sky. Or a six-yeared granddaughter whirls past, Doing a roundoff with – count them – One, two, back handsprings. Where’s the consistency of theme or mood? I want a refund, or, at least a recount. Better yet – more thyme on my cold curry.
1 Comment
9/8/2016 08:24:13 am
Geoff, Loved the poem. I'm wondering if you are related to Jennifer Garwick, a friend of mine from high school? She had a brother Geoff.
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